Read Online The Anarchist Detective (Max Cámara) by Jason Webster - Free Book Online
Authors: Jason Webster
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The father left and moved to Venezuela before Mirella was born. We’re checking, but it looks as though he’s still there. There’s been no contact between Olga and the father since they separated. Not even now that Mirella’s dead.’
From what Yago was saying, the police’s first theory still appeared to fit. A broken home, drug addiction, possible prostitution. Cámara was trying to work out what Yago’s doubts were – and why they needed to be expressed out here.
‘You think there’s a sexual motive? Some kind of sex killer?’
‘We’ve thought about that,’ Yago said. ‘She’s found naked, the semen, light traces of bleeding around the vagina . . . it’s a possibility. But apart from the marks around her neck from the strangulation, there was little sign of a struggle, no bruising on her thighs or groin, for example.’
‘And the prostitution theory. Are you sure about that?’
‘No, personally I’m not. Jiménez suggested it. But the semen could just be the result of some adolescent fumblings. Even the bleeding. It wasn’t that heavy. She was fifteen, for heaven’s sake. She was probably having her first sexual encounters. So there’s semen from more than one boy . . .’
He shrugged.
They fell silent, both policemen aware that they had fallen into the trap of speculating too much with too little information. It was one of the things they had taught them not to do at Avila, but every now and again it happened. Especially in cases such as this one, when something about the murder victim brought on an inevitable desire to wrap it up quickly, to catch the perpetrator and throw him into the darkest cell.
A neighbourhood bar on the other side of the road was in the process of closing up: they didn’t look after Saturday-night crowds. With a nod Yago suggested they go over and catch a last drink before the shutters came down.
‘There’s no one there,’ Yago said. ‘We can talk without being overheard. By policemen at least.’
The barman looked at them with a sneer as they walked in: it had been a long day and he wanted to go home.
‘We won’t be long.’
Cámara ordered a brandy; Yago a bottle of alcohol-free beer.
‘You said no one here knew her,’ Cámara repeated once they’d sat down.
‘This is the story as far as we know at the moment.’ Yago crossed his arms in front of him on the table.
‘Mirella had a drug problem. She also had problems at home – didn’t always get on well with her mother. So sometimes she used to come down here from Madrid to stay with this family of hers nearby.’
‘Where are they?’
‘In a place called Pozoblanco, about five kilometres north. Small village.’
‘But she used to come into the city.’
‘That’s right. The idea was that when things were bad at home she could come here and clean up, get a bit of space from Mum, before making her way back. Obviously it disrupted her schooling, but everyone seems to have thought it was worth it.’
‘How often had this happened, then? How many times had she come here like this?’
‘Three or four times.’
‘And she always made trips to the city when she was down here?’
‘That’s it.’
Yago took a swig of his beer.
‘I knew I did right calling you. Jiménez is good, but . . . You saw what sort he is.’
Cámara shrugged. He knew exactly what Yago meant.
‘So Mirella came here every time she stayed in Pozoblanco,’ Yago repeated.
‘On her own?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did she tell her family? I’m assuming they’re – what? Aunts? Uncles?’
‘Grandparents. She always told them she had some Madrid friends in the city and that she was going to see them. Used a moped to get in and out.’
‘Has it been found?’
‘No. There’s been a search, but so far no trace.’
‘And these Madrid friends?’
‘No one has any idea. She never mentioned any names, just used to tell them she was off and that was it.’
‘And they were supposed to be helping this girl
From what Yago was saying, the police’s first theory still appeared to fit. A broken home, drug addiction, possible prostitution. Cámara was trying to work out what Yago’s doubts were – and why they needed to be expressed out here.
‘You think there’s a sexual motive? Some kind of sex killer?’
‘We’ve thought about that,’ Yago said. ‘She’s found naked, the semen, light traces of bleeding around the vagina . . . it’s a possibility. But apart from the marks around her neck from the strangulation, there was little sign of a struggle, no bruising on her thighs or groin, for example.’
‘And the prostitution theory. Are you sure about that?’
‘No, personally I’m not. Jiménez suggested it. But the semen could just be the result of some adolescent fumblings. Even the bleeding. It wasn’t that heavy. She was fifteen, for heaven’s sake. She was probably having her first sexual encounters. So there’s semen from more than one boy . . .’
He shrugged.
They fell silent, both policemen aware that they had fallen into the trap of speculating too much with too little information. It was one of the things they had taught them not to do at Avila, but every now and again it happened. Especially in cases such as this one, when something about the murder victim brought on an inevitable desire to wrap it up quickly, to catch the perpetrator and throw him into the darkest cell.
A neighbourhood bar on the other side of the road was in the process of closing up: they didn’t look after Saturday-night crowds. With a nod Yago suggested they go over and catch a last drink before the shutters came down.
‘There’s no one there,’ Yago said. ‘We can talk without being overheard. By policemen at least.’
The barman looked at them with a sneer as they walked in: it had been a long day and he wanted to go home.
‘We won’t be long.’
Cámara ordered a brandy; Yago a bottle of alcohol-free beer.
‘You said no one here knew her,’ Cámara repeated once they’d sat down.
‘This is the story as far as we know at the moment.’ Yago crossed his arms in front of him on the table.
‘Mirella had a drug problem. She also had problems at home – didn’t always get on well with her mother. So sometimes she used to come down here from Madrid to stay with this family of hers nearby.’
‘Where are they?’
‘In a place called Pozoblanco, about five kilometres north. Small village.’
‘But she used to come into the city.’
‘That’s right. The idea was that when things were bad at home she could come here and clean up, get a bit of space from Mum, before making her way back. Obviously it disrupted her schooling, but everyone seems to have thought it was worth it.’
‘How often had this happened, then? How many times had she come here like this?’
‘Three or four times.’
‘And she always made trips to the city when she was down here?’
‘That’s it.’
Yago took a swig of his beer.
‘I knew I did right calling you. Jiménez is good, but . . . You saw what sort he is.’
Cámara shrugged. He knew exactly what Yago meant.
‘So Mirella came here every time she stayed in Pozoblanco,’ Yago repeated.
‘On her own?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did she tell her family? I’m assuming they’re – what? Aunts? Uncles?’
‘Grandparents. She always told them she had some Madrid friends in the city and that she was going to see them. Used a moped to get in and out.’
‘Has it been found?’
‘No. There’s been a search, but so far no trace.’
‘And these Madrid friends?’
‘No one has any idea. She never mentioned any names, just used to tell them she was off and that was it.’
‘And they were supposed to be helping this girl
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